


The Temporary Nature of Any Precious Thing

by enigmaticblue



Series: Between the Shadow and the Soul [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmaticblue/pseuds/enigmaticblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The things you most want to hold onto, the things that are most precious, are always temporary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What It Might Cost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for seasonal_spuffy fall 2015. I find the question of whether a vampire can suffer from something like PTSD to be a fascinating question. From the beginning of S3, and Angel’s slow recovery, I would assume that it’s possible.
> 
> Please note that while I ignore quite a bit of canon for S5 and S6, certain canonical character deaths still occur.

Buffy woke abruptly when a hand smacked her across the face, and she rolled away on instinct, remembering not to strike back at the last minute. They were in Spike’s crypt, and Buffy had been hoping for an entire night without nightmares.

 

Stupid wish, really, since they were about one out of every three—and Buffy knew that those nights were about the only ones Spike was able to sleep at all.

 

The backhand to the face was more accidental than intentional, and Buffy touched her cheek gingerly. She wouldn’t bruise, which was good. Spike might be a soulless vampire, but he didn’t like hurting her.

 

She’d learned not to try to wake Spike up, since any hands on him would cause him to come up fighting all that much harder.

 

Buffy stood and found her clothing and pulled it on as she waited for Spike to wake up of his own accord. She had been so certain that Spike would pull out of this with a little TLC. A few weeks on the outside, and Spike would be back to normal—or what passed as normal for him.

 

He was a vampire, after all. Shouldn’t he be able to shake off the trauma?

 

That was what she’d thought, anyway. Here it was August: she was heading back to school next week, and she had a boyfriend she couldn’t have sleep over lest someone call the cops when he shouted loud enough to bring the house down.

 

She was hunting for her shoes when Spike sat up, looking around wildly. “Buffy!”

 

“I’m here,” she said, giving up on her shoes to sit on the edge of the mattress. “You’re okay. We’re both okay.”

 

Spike relaxed, and then his jaw clenched, and Buffy knew that he was feeling shitty about his nightmare. Again.

 

She wasn’t sure she’d be doing much better, but Spike seemed to hate her being there after his nightmares as much as he hated actually _having_ them.

 

Buffy couldn’t fix him, she couldn’t offer him comfort when he was like this, she couldn’t even tell him that things would get better—because that was patently untrue after three months of nightmares and short tempered outbursts and truly phenomenal sex.

 

In some respects, Buffy was surprised they’d lasted this long. She and Spike had been together for a handful of weeks in Los Angeles before they’d split up. They’d made it three months this time.

 

When she was being honest with herself, Buffy knew they wouldn’t make it another three.

 

“Did I hurt you?” Spike asked in a low voice, his bare shoulders tense as though waiting for a blow.

 

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Buffy replied lightly. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

“I hurt you again.” Spike’s voice was flat and lifeless. Buffy put a hand between his shoulder blades, and Spike shrugged her off. “Don’t touch me!”

 

She pulled her hand back as though burned, and then got to her feet, finally locating the really cute boots she’d been trying out—and that Spike had totally not noticed—and pulled them on.

 

“Look, I’m just going to go,” she said. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

 

“Whatever, Summers.”

 

It was a crappy response, but Buffy stifled her hurt and pasted on a smile. “Okay, then!”

 

She left before her smile could crack, and before the ache in her heart became evident in her expression.

 

Wrapping her arms around herself, she walked home in the velvety darkness, the intense heat of SoCal in August having faded a bit by now. She felt chilled, and her cheek still stung a bit, and she suddenly found herself holding back sobs.

 

She was just so _tired_ —Spike wasn’t the only one not sleeping—and she felt so fucking helpless.

 

Buffy felt a certain responsibility to him, and she wasn’t going to end the relationship over something Spike couldn’t control. At the same time, she couldn’t seem to help him.

 

It would be easy if it was all bad, she admitted, if only to herself. If Spike was always an asshole, she’d at least feel a little more justified in dumping him.

 

But there were parts of their relationship that were really good, and Buffy had reached the stage where she hurt when Spike hurt.

 

She hurt all the time these days.

 

~~~~~

 

There were nights Spike could forget, nights when he and Buffy walked side-by-side on patrol, their fingers tangled together with the kind of gentle grace he’d nearly forgotten existed. When they kissed long and slow under the stars, or fell onto his mattress and lost themselves in fucking, or found a good fight—

 

Spike could forget then, but when he closed his eyes, he was right back in that cell all over again.

 

As bad as that was, it was worse to know he was hurting Buffy—by commission and omission, you always hurt the one you—

 

Spike’s mind stuttered to a halt. He didn’t love her; that way led to madness.

 

Still, he owed her an apology, and he turned up on her doorstep as soon as the sun went down the next day, but Joyce was the one to answer the door.

 

“Spike, hello,” she said, sounding a little cool, but then he didn’t think she’d ever completely warmed to him. He didn’t blame her. Buffy _could_ do better.

 

Spike shuffled his feet. “Is Buffy here?”

 

“She went out with Willow and Xander,” Joyce replied. “Did you want to come inside?”

 

He hesitated. “I don’t want to impose.”

 

“It’s no imposition,” Joyce said, stepping aside. “I have those little marshmallows if you want hot chocolate.”

 

Spike hesitated, wondering what, if anything, Buffy had told her. “If it’s no trouble.”

 

He caused enough trouble for Buffy; he didn’t need to be a burden on Joyce, too.

 

“Come into the kitchen,” she said.

 

Spike followed her, feeling ill at ease. He’d never had cause or opportunity to be friendly with the parents of someone he was fucking in the past.

 

For that matter, he hadn’t had much reason to be in a cozy little house like this in the past either, not unless he was eating the residents.

 

He perched on one of the barstools at the counter and felt his shoulders hunch. His back was to the door, and he felt the itch between his shoulder blades. He would have felt better if Buffy had been there, watching his back, although he still wouldn’t have been entirely at ease.

 

“Would you be more comfortable somewhere else?” Joyce asked, showing more sensitivity than Spike expected.

 

Spike made an effort to relax. “No, I’m fine.”

 

“The door is locked,” Joyce offered.

 

Spike forced a smile. “Thanks.”

 

It didn’t actually make him feel any better, but he made an effort to appear relaxed at least.

 

Joyce worked her magic with the stove, and then poured the mixture into a mug, handing it and a bag of little marshmallows to Spike.

 

He nodded. “’Preciate it.”

 

They had nothing to talk about, really, and so Spike just sat and watched the marshmallows dissolve in between careful sips. He pretended not to notice her watching him, although she wasn’t so rude as to stare, sipping her tea.

 

Spike finally forced himself to look at her. “I’m going to do my best not to hurt her.”

 

Joyce’s eyes were kind and wise, but there was also an implacability to her expression. “Spike, of course you will.”

 

Spike blinked. “I—”

 

“I believe that you won’t mean to hurt her,” Joyce added. “You might even be good for her in the short term.”

 

Spike frowned.

 

“But in the long term, what can you offer her?” Joyce asked.

 

Spike sighed. “Maybe nothing. Maybe just someone who will have her back. Or maybe she’d be better off if I left town, let her find someone better.”

 

Joyce held his gaze. “Maybe, but I think the better question is what _you_ want.”

 

Spike wanted a multitude of things at that moment, but none of them were—or seemed—feasible. He wanted to be himself again. He wanted to sleep without nightmares. He wanted to believe that he could watch his own back, if only so he could be confident enough to watch Buffy’s.

 

He wanted _out_ of Sunnydale.

 

Something must have shown on his face, because Joyce rose. “I have an early day tomorrow, but feel free to stay until Buffy gets home. It shouldn’t be too long now.”

 

Spike didn’t really want to stay when Buffy wasn’t here, but he needed to apologize, and this was the best place to catch her. He finished his hot chocolate and then sat in the living room to wait.

 

He didn’t turn on the lights or the TV; he just sat, lost in his own thoughts until he heard the sound of the key in the lock. He got to his feet then, squaring his shoulders.

 

Buffy stepped inside and closed the door, and then jumped when she caught sight of Spike. “Spike! You startled me!”

 

“Sorry,” he said immediately. “I’m sorry. I—for everything. For all of it.”

 

She sighed. “Spike, it’s fine. I get it. We both have our share of nightmares.”

 

“I hurt you,” Spike insisted. “I don’t want that, Buffy.”

 

Her name slipped out without him meaning to use it, and he could see when that struck her. He rarely used her name, preferring to keep things at least a little impersonal.

 

“I know,” she said quietly. “Look, I should probably patrol. Do you want to come with me?”

 

Spike nodded. “Yeah, that would be good.”

 

He let Buffy lead the way, and they didn’t head straight for Restfield. They took their time, visiting a couple of cemeteries, staking a few vampires, and then heading towards Spike’s crypt.

 

“Let’s stay outside,” she said. “Maybe the roof?”

 

Spike nodded, not wanting a repeat of last night. “Sure.” He leapt up and reached down to help Buffy make the jump, even though she didn’t need it.

 

They sat in a silence that felt heavy, portentous, and Spike looked up at the stars, starting a bit when Buffy’s hand found his. He entwined their fingers together and kept looking up.

 

“Do you even want to be here, Spike?” The harsh words were softened by her tone, weary and soft and a little plaintive.

 

Spike sighed. “I want to be with you, and I made you a promise.”

 

It was, he thought, the best he could do.

 

Buffy was silent for a long moment, and then she said, “I don’t think you’re going to get better if you stay here.”

 

He snatched back his hand. “I don’t need to get _better_. I’m fine.”

 

“You’re not fine!” she replied heatedly, with that fire he l—liked so much. “We share a bed, Spike! You can’t tell me you’re fine!”

 

“I will be!” he snarled and jumped off the roof in one easy movement. More than Buffy seeing his weakness, he hated that she thought him weak.

 

And really, what else was it but weakness?

 

~~~~~

 

Buffy couldn’t let him leave like that, and so she followed, jumping off the roof and running after him, wondering what the best thing to do was.

 

She wanted to keep Spike with her, and she certainly didn’t want to lose him, but at the same time, she thought she might need to do what was best for him, and for them, and that didn’t seem to include Spike staying in Sunnydale.

 

“Spike! Spike, wait!” she called, but he just jogged faster.

 

She wasn’t going to let him get away, and she raced after him. Buffy knew she could take him down forcefully, but the last thing she wanted was to hurt him. When it didn’t seem like he was going to stop, she did a flying tackle and rolled to take most of the impact.

 

She wound up on top, and she kissed him, putting everything she couldn’t say into that kiss—that she wanted him, that she cared for him more than she could express, that she wanted him to stay.

 

Spike was stiff at first, and then he relaxed, running his fingers through her hair, giving back as good as he got.

 

Buffy didn’t have a ton of experience kissing, but Spike was the best she’d had, pouring every once of passion he had into each touch. Sex had never been the problem with them.

 

Eventually, the kissing tapered off, giving way to brief, almost chaste kisses, their lips brushing, until Buffy rested her forehead on Spike’s shoulder.

 

His arms held her tightly, and he pressed his forehead to the top of her head. “I don’t want to leave you.”

 

“I know,” Buffy replied. “I don’t want you to leave.”

 

Fall, Buffy thought, was for endings, at least between the two of them. They had said goodbye to each other a few years ago at just this time of year.

 

“I won’t ask you to wait.”

 

Buffy made him no promises either way, but privately she thought she might wait a long time. “It’s okay,” she finally said. “We found each other again once before.”

 

She noticed that he didn’t promise to return, but then she hadn’t offered any promises either.

 

“Do you want to come back to my place?” Spike asked.

 

Buffy hesitated, not wanting a prolonged goodbye, but not wanting to pass up the chance to spend as much time with him as she could. “Yeah, I do.”

 

They made love that night, and it couldn’t be called anything else. The room was lit by candles, and Spike undressed her slowly, used his mouth and his tongue and his fingers, thrust into her with long, slow strokes until she couldn’t form words, could only make sounds of encouragement and desperate need.

 

Buffy memorized everything, knowing that he was apologizing with actions, not words. When he stretched out next to her, sated and silent, she brushed her lips against his bare shoulder in an act of forgiveness.

 

When he had fallen asleep, Buffy rose silently and pulled her clothes on. She wished she had something to write on, that she could leave a note for him as she had done before, but there was nothing.

 

Nothing except for a slim volume of poetry, and when she rummaged around a little more, she found a small stub of a pencil. There wasn’t enough to write a long note, and she was fairly sure that both Giles and Willow would have yelled at her for defacing a book, but she scribbled a short note in the front flap and set the book where Spike would be sure to see it when he woke up.

 

She snuck up the ladder and stepped out into the early morning sunlight, tipping her head back to prevent the tears from falling.

 

Taking a deep breath, Buffy trudged back home, letting herself into the house and closing the door with a quiet snick.

 

Her attempt to be stealthy was stymied by her mom’s appearance, coming out of the kitchen with a dishrag in her hands. “Buffy? Is that you?”

 

“It’s me, Mom,” she replied, keeping her voice even with effort. “Sorry I’m late.”

 

“More like really early,” her mom replied with a smile that fell away when she caught sight of Buffy’s expression. “Are you okay? Did you and Spike have a fight?”

 

Buffy shook her head. “No, Spike’s just going through a rough patch right now. We’re fine.”

 

It wasn’t even a lie. She and Spike _were_ fine; she just didn’t think they were together anymore.

 

“Are you sure?” Joyce asked.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Buffy insisted with a smile. “Great, even.”

 

Joyce didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “Well, if you need to talk…”

 

“I’ll let you know,” Buffy promised. “I should go get cleaned up.”

 

“Have a good day, sweetie,” Joyce called as Buffy headed up the stairs.

 

Buffy managed to hold back the tears until she was in the shower, and then she leaned against the tile and sobbed, trusting the running water to mask the sound.

 

Maybe if she could sleep more than a couple of hours at a time, she’d feel better, but somehow she doubted it. If that was all she needed, she could have just insisted on a few nights in her own bed _without_ Spike.

 

To be honest, Buffy didn’t know what she needed, except for maybe Spike to be the person she’d known in Los Angeles, or for them both to be in the right place at the right time.

 

When she’d cried herself out, she shut off the water, dried off, put on her comfiest pajamas, and crawled right into bed.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike woke with the unfamiliar sense of being well rested for the first time in ages, his hand automatically searching out Buffy, finding nothing but cooled sheets and a familiar slim book.

 

He sat up slowly, knowing that the book hadn’t been there last night.

 

 

He’d probably be more disturbed, but it was Buffy, and he trusted her. The depth of his trust for her frightened him at times.

 

The depth of his feelings frightened him.

 

Spike flipped open the book, certain that Buffy wouldn’t have left it there without reason, and he saw scribbled words in smudged pencil lead.

 

“ _You know where to find me_ ,” he read. “ _Come back when you’re ready._ ”

 

Below the message was a word that had been scratched out, with her signature below that. The light wasn’t good, and Spike fumbled for his lighter, flicking it on and holding it up to the page.

 

If he didn’t know any better, he might thought it said “love,” as he could make out a harsh down stroke, the imprint of a circle, the point of a “v,” the long tail of a scrawled “e.”

 

For a moment, he considered ripping out the page, but then he closed the book gently and rested a hand on it.

 

And then, with a heavy heart, he started to pack.


	2. One More River to Cross

Buffy managed to put everybody off for two days. She suspected her mom knew, because when Giles called wanting to talk about patrol schedules, Buffy said she wasn’t feeling well and asked her mom to tell him she was sick.

 

Joyce put her hand on Buffy’s forehead. “You don’t feel warm.”

 

“Maybe I’m just really tired,” Buffy suggested, mustering the most pitiful expression in her arsenal. “Spike hasn’t been sleeping, which means I haven’t been sleeping… You know how it is.”

 

Her mom’s expression softened. “I do know. If Spike stops by, what should I tell him?”

 

Buffy swallowed and just barely managed a smile. “You can send him up.”

 

Joyce pressed a kiss to Buffy’s forehead. “I’ll let Mr. Giles know.”

 

As expected, Spike didn’t show up when the sun went down, and she felt a stab of dread. Buffy came down for dinner when her mom called her, and she was touched to see that her mom had made one of her favorites: grilled cheese and tomato soup.

 

“Comfort food, huh?” Buffy asked.

 

Joyce gave her a hug. “I thought you might need it.”

 

Buffy hugged her mom extra tight. “Yeah.”

 

“Spike?”

 

“I don’t know,” Buffy admitted. “I’m going to check on him.”

 

To her credit, her mom didn’t ask anything else, not even when Buffy returned shortly after 11, having found Spike’s crypt empty, and all of his personal items gone.

 

Everything but the book, which he’d left on the sarcophagus, where she’d be sure to spot it. On the inside cover, below her message, he’d written, “See you around, Summers.”

 

It might be kind of a shitty, inexact promise, but it was a promise nonetheless, as was the book itself, a volume of Tennyson’s work.

 

Her mom was in the living room when Buffy let herself in, the book clutched in her hand, and her expression went soft and sympathetic as she held out an arm. Buffy cuddled up next to her and breathed deeply, willing herself not to cry.

 

“What’s that?” Joyce asked after a few moments, stroking Buffy’s hair.

 

“A book.” After a moment’s hesitation, Buffy held it out, and her mom took it with her free hand, her other continuing its smooth strokes.

 

There was the rustle of pages, and Joyce said, “He dog-eared one of the pages. Did you see?”

 

Buffy swallowed hard. “No, I—what does it say?”

 

It had been years since her mom had read to her, and the rhythm of Joyce’s words soothed her aching heart.

 

_Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;_

_Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;_

_Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font._

_The firefly wakens; waken thou with me._

_Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,_

_And like a ghost she glimmers on to me._

_Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,_

_And all thy heart lies open unto me._

_Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves_

_A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me._

_Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,_

_And slips into the bosom of the lake._

_So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip_

_Into my bosom and be lost in me._

 

“Oh,” Buffy said softly, her breath catching. She wasn’t sure she understood it completely, but she heard the feeling behind the words, and it stirred something in her. “It’s beautiful.”

 

“I never would have guessed that Spike was a fan of poetry,” her mom said lightly, but Buffy could hear the slight catch in her voice that suggested her mom was more affected than she let on.

 

Buffy wracked her brain, trying to remember if Spike had ever given her a clue, but she couldn’t. She had no idea where he would have gotten the book, because they hadn’t had time to go after his personal effects in the Initiative. That meant he would have had to go out and find _this_ book, that it was important enough to him to find and keep a copy.

 

That _she_ was important enough to him to leave it behind.

 

Unbidden, her mom turned the page and read the next poem aloud and then the next, the steady cadence of her voice lulling Buffy into a sleep so deep that she didn’t wake until the sun rose the following morning. She found herself on the couch, covered with a blanket, and her heart was easier now.

 

Still, she wasn’t exactly looking forward to explaining what had happened to Giles or her friends.

 

Buffy knew she couldn’t put them off forever, though, and when Giles called that day asking her to come by, she didn’t have much of a choice.

 

“Your mother said you weren’t feeling well,” Giles said as he opened the door for her. He peered at her closely. “You look a little pale.” He looked over her shoulder. “Is Spike with you?”

 

Buffy shook her head. “No, Spike needs some time.”

 

Giles frowned. “Would you like some tea?”

 

She managed a smile. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

 

It felt almost normal to sit on Giles’ couch with her hands wrapped around a mug as Giles sat next to her with his own cup. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Buffy sighed. “He was having nightmares every night, and it was getting worse. I didn’t think he was going to get better if he stayed here. I think he felt trapped.”

 

“So, you told him to leave,” Giles supplied.

 

Buffy shook her head. “I told him that he could and that maybe it would help.”

 

“That was very selfless,” he said gently.

 

Buffy swallowed hard. “Yeah, well, I feel pretty selfish right now. I just want him here.”

 

“I can understand that,” Giles replied. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“Not really,” Buffy admitted. “I think I’d rather talk Slayer stuff.”

 

“We can do that,” Giles said. “I’d like to talk about patrolling once the semester starts. Are you still planning to live on campus?”

 

They talk about patrols and training schedules until a knock on the door heralded the arrival of Xander, Willow, and Tara.

 

“Are you feeling better?” Willow asked immediately. “We were thinking about going to the Bronze. Are you feeling okay to go?”

 

Buffy smiled. “Yeah, sure.”

 

“Will Spike be joining us?” Xander asked, managing to sound only slightly put out by the idea. She appreciated his attempt to accept Spike’s presence, even if it didn’t appear necessary at the moment.

 

Buffy shook her head. “No, not tonight.”

 

“Did something happen?” Willow asked with immediate concern.

 

“We’re okay,” Buffy replied, and it wasn’t a lie, not exactly. She and Spike were fine; it was just that he wasn’t in Sunnydale now, and she didn’t know when he’d be back.

 

But she didn’t really want to talk about that right now.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike regretted leaving Sunnydale as soon as he stole the car, but he didn’t regret it enough to turn back. As soon as the sun went down, Spike broke into an old Honda, going for nondescript and easily hidden. He switched the license plates with those of a Chevy Impala and headed out of town.

 

When he reached Los Angeles, he abandoned the car in a deserted lot and found an empty warehouse to hole up in for the day.

 

He felt like he could breathe again, even if he didn’t need to, although he missed Buffy with an ache that couldn’t be assuaged. It was the same ache that had driven him back to Sunnydale and into the arms of the Initiative.

 

It was the ache that had driven him away, in the end, because he wasn’t sure he could trust his feelings.

 

Love had never served him well in the past.

 

And yet, this was Buffy, who returned his feelings, who had left him that note, who had cared enough to let him go.

 

He thought about going back to Sunnydale, but it had been more than a year since he’d been outside the town limits, and here he was in L.A. Tomorrow, he could hop on a cargo ship and go anywhere in the world, anywhere other than here, and that trapped feeling might eventually dissipate enough to let him choose to go back.

 

He had sort of promised, after all.

 

Spike slept while the sun was up, but he was out of the building and heading for the docks as soon as it was dark. No one here knew him, no one knew what he was, or that he was a vampire who couldn’t hunt. No one would care, of that he was reasonably sure.

 

Years ago, when he’d first run into the Slayer here, he remembered that most people—Buffy included—barely looked up from their own miserable lives.

 

It was no different now, and Spike began to see how he might find his way in the world, even with the chip in his brain.

 

He did pause ever so briefly at a convenience store that sold postcards, among other things, and he paid for a book of stamps even though he’d only use one.

 

 _From Sunny Los Angeles_ , read the text on the front, embossed on some palm trees that appeared to have seen better days, and Spike felt a certain kinship with them.

 

He had no idea what to say to her, so he wrote the first thing that popped into his head:

 

 _How like a winter hath my absence been_  
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!  
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!  
What old December's bareness every where!

 

He couldn’t make her any promises, but he could at least let her know how much he regretted leaving. At least Buffy would know that he hadn’t forgotten her and that he wanted to see her again.

 

That was all he could offer at the moment.

 

~~~~~

 

Willow was with Buffy when she picked up the mail, talking about the upcoming semester excitedly. Buffy flipped through the various envelopes and landed on a postcard from L.A.

 

“What’s that?” Willow asked. “Did your dad send a postcard?”

 

Buffy sighed, realizing that she couldn’t exactly keep Spike’s absence a secret any longer. “No, it’s from Spike.”

 

“He’s not here?” Willow asked. “I thought maybe he was just being…shy. Or something.”

 

Buffy led Willow into the house. “No, he left a few days ago. He couldn’t stay here, Wills. It was—ugly.”

 

“He left?” Willow demanded. She put a hand on Buffy’s arm. “Are you okay?”

 

“I—yes. Mostly.” Buffy grimaced. “Let’s go up to my room and talk.”

 

Willow sat next to her on the bed when they were in Buffy’s room, and she reached out again to put a hand on Buffy’s arm. “Okay, here I am, listening girl.”

 

Buffy smiled wanly. “He was having nightmares, and he couldn’t let me in. I could see that he felt trapped, and I told him that maybe he should go, figure things out. I think he might come back.”

 

Willow held her hand out, and Buffy reluctantly passed over the postcard, which Willow read silently. “So, are we mad at him?” Willow asked. “Because I can hate him if you need me to, but if not…”

 

Buffy closed her eyes, willing away the tears. “No, I don’t hate him. I don’t want you to hate him. He needed to leave, and—”

 

“And you love him,” Willow replied with understanding. “I get it Buffy. No hating.”

 

If anybody would understand, it would be Willow, Buffy thought. She’d let Oz go, too, because that was what he’d needed. Granted, Willow had found Tara in the meantime, but she hadn’t been looking. Buffy might find someone else, too.

 

But then again, she might not.

 

“Are you okay?” Willow asked.

 

Buffy shook her head. “No, I’m not. But I will be.”

 

In some ways, her life didn’t change with Spike’s absence, as he’d never been a huge part of it. They’d only had a few months together, and only a few weeks together before that. He had never spent a night at her house, or come by her new dorm room. He didn’t spend days with her, and Willow, Xander, Anya, and Tara had taken to accompanying her on patrols.

 

That was the only place Buffy really felt his lack—except for how she felt his absence acutely most of the time—and her friends tried their best to make up for it. Xander even managed to keep his comments about Spike to a minimum.

 

She had no idea if Willow had said something to him, or if Xander was showing unusual empathy. Either way, she didn’t care.

 

Buffy didn’t want to think about it, so she threw herself into slaying and her classes, and hoped for the best.

 

She wished she could tell him about Dawn, about her mom being sick, about her classes, but she had no way to do so. Although Spike knew where to find her, and where to send postcards or letters, or whatever else he wanted to send, she didn’t have the same luxury.

 

On the other hand, at least she knew that he was still alive—or undead.

 

Three months into the semester, when Buffy was in the middle of dealing with Glory, finding out that her sister wasn’t really her sister, and facing her mom’s illness—when she wanted nothing so much as Spike’s support—she got the next postcard.

 

This one had the picture of a green rainforest with a large red flower that Buffy didn’t recognize and lettering that read, “Manta, Ecuador.”

 

On the back, Spike had written a few lines of poetry:

 

_Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig_

_and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:_

_maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,_

_a cracked bell, or a torn heart._

 

The words made her heart ache, and she knew he wasn’t coming back, not yet. But at least he was still alive, and still thinking of her.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike didn’t know where he was going at first—just away, mostly—away from anywhere near the US Army. He just wanted to be someplace else, somewhere he could get his head on straight, so that he could eventually get back to Buffy.

 

The next few weeks set up a pattern for him: he would wait until the ship, hop off, and then find something to eat. He stole wallets and other things to make a buck and looked for trouble in the form of other vampires, just to get in a spot of violence.

 

After a few days, Spike hopped another cargo ship and rode it to the next port, where he did the same thing.

 

He was never sure later what might have happened if he hadn’t stopped in Lima. In the past, he hadn’t needed to go too far afield to eat. He just had to find someone who looked tasty and take what he wanted.

 

That wasn’t an option anymore, so he needed to find a butcher who would sell him blood in each port. Since he could at least speak rudimentary Spanish, he had better luck than he might have otherwise. Most of the time, the butchers didn’t even ask questions, happy to exchange blood—something most people didn’t want—for hard cash.

 

Until Lima, Spike had pretty good luck both finding food and finding a place to stay for a few days. His luck turned there, however. He was planning to find a quiet, dark, out of the way spot to drink his meal and plan his next steps, when he heard footsteps coming from behind. Spike turned, prepared to defend himself, but the pipe hit him across the forearm. Spike struck back out of reflex, and then immediately felt the shocking pain of the chip firing, and he cried out, collapsing to the ground.

 

He dropped the bag with the container of blood, and it burst as the blows rained down, which was another piece of bad luck.

 

They kept beating him, and Spike could do nothing to stop them. He curled up instinctively, trying to protect himself, but the blows continued relentlessly. By the time they stopped, Spike was in a haze of pain, and he knew he’d be dead if he weren’t a vampire.

 

Spike heard them curse as they went through his pockets, finding very little, and then running off. He lost a little time, and then felt the change in the air as the sun began to rise.

 

Slowly, with agonizing movements, Spike dragged himself to a nearby building, grateful that it was abandoned, and found a dark corner.

 

He was in a bit of a catch-22. He couldn’t heal unless he had blood, and he couldn’t get blood without killing someone. Or robbing someone to get their money and buy blood. And he couldn’t do that as beat up as he was.

 

Spike was fucked, and so he curled into a ball as the words echoed in his head, “If only I didn’t have the chip. If only I didn’t have the chip.”

 

In Sunnydale, it hadn’t seemed to be as pressing an issue. He had Buffy, who could watch his back, and there were butchers in town who didn’t blink at providing blood, as long as you had the cash, which the Slayer was also willing to provide. Spike had demons to face, and he had Buffy, and while it hadn’t been enough exactly, it was enough to keep him from thinking about getting the chip out.

 

Plus, it was _Buffy_ , and getting the chip out meant he would lose the one good thing remaining in his life.

 

Now, however, he was on his own, and he didn’t have Buffy to watch his back.

 

Spike wasn’t sure when he’d go back to Sunnydale, if ever, but he also didn’t think he could continue on without getting it out. Even a human would have at least been able to defend themselves against the attack without crippling pain. They might not have survived, but they would have stood a fighting chance.

 

He had been going a little crazy in Sunnydale, unable to plan for the future, or think about what he wanted to do, but now it was a drumbeat of need.

 

And if he gave into that need, he might never get Buffy back.

 

He didn’t love her, though, not really, and he could— _would_ —do this for himself. He’d let the chips fall where they may.

 

Spike had heard of a demon who would grant a wish if you passed his trials; that seemed to be a better choice than entrusting some doctor with the task of rooting around in his brain. He could threaten bodily harm, but would find the tables neatly turned if his bluff were called.

 

Before he hopped his next cargo ship, heading for Cape Horn, Spike sent off another postcard with a few scrawled lines that said what he could not.

 

_To-day your lips are afar,_

_Yet draw my lips to them, love._

_Around, beneath, and above,_

_Is frost to bind and to bar;_

_But where I am and you are,_

_Desire and the fire thereof._

 

~~~~~

 

In the wake of her mom’s death, Buffy almost hated Spike for leaving and for staying gone. She missed him with a ferocity that startled her, feeling as though she should be over him leaving by now, but the grief over her mom’s absence renewed her longing for him.

 

She thought that under other circumstances, she might have collapsed under the strain, but she had Dawn to think about, and a Hellgod to fight. Buffy wasn’t seventeen anymore; she couldn’t run away to Los Angeles and lose herself. She had to keep going.

 

But going on didn’t mean _moving_ on.

 

On a rare evening at the Bronze with Dawn present but hanging out with a group of her own friends, Buffy could relax a bit. She wanted to forget about Glory for a little while, to forget about missing her mom, and the bills, and Spike being gone.

 

Granted, she felt like a fifth wheel since Xander had his arm around Anya, and Willow and Tara were holding hands under the table, but she was used to that by now.

 

“So, Buffy, I’ve got this friend,” Xander said during a lull in the conversation. “And I was thinking you might want to come out to dinner with us some night.”

 

Buffy blinked. “Are you trying to set me up on a blind date?”

 

“Don’t you think it’s time you got back on the horse?” Xander asked. “You haven’t dated since Spike left.”

 

Buffy sighed. She’d been doing so well at the whole forgetting thing, too. “I don’t have the time or energy to date right now, Xander.”

 

“Maybe you should give it a try,” Willow said encouragingly. “You wouldn’t have to _date_ , just go have some fun for an evening. We can stay with Dawnie.”

 

Buffy shook her head. “I don’t want to go out on a date, guys. I’ve got enough on my plate right now without adding a date with someone I don’t know.”

 

“If you’re still hung up on Spike,” Xander began.

 

Buffy closed her eyes. “I just can’t add one more thing right now. Between dealing with Dawn, and Glory, I don’t have it in me.”

 

She wasn’t sure when dating had become a chore, but that was what it felt like right now. Even without the slaying, her life was complicated, and she didn’t really want to try to explain it to a stranger.

 

“I think it’s smart,” Tara said, and Buffy was a little surprised by the show of support, but maybe she shouldn’t be. Of all her friends, Tara was the one who understood what it meant to lose your mother. “You should focus on what’s important now. There will be plenty of time to date later.”

 

With Tara behind her, Willow backed off. “Well, it’s not like you need more stress right now.”

 

Xander opened his mouth, possibly to argue, and Buffy saw Anya elbow him hard. “I get it,” he said, sounding just a little bit breathless.

 

Of course, the truth was that Buffy wasn’t completely over Spike, something that she was reminded of when she checked the mail the next day and found another postcard, this one from Johannesburg. As she’d come to expect, there was a poem, this time an entire sonnet.

 

_From you have I been absent in the spring,_

_When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim,_

_Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,_

_That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him._

_Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell_

_Of different flowers in odour and in hue,_

_Could make me any summer's story tell,_

_Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:_

_Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,_

_Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;_

_They were but sweet, but figures of delight,_

_Drawn after you, you pattern of all those._

    _Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,_

    _As with your shadow I with these did play._

 

Buffy smiled and tucked the postcard with the others. She’d rather have Spike here with her, but she was learning to parse his borrowed words. In this case, she thought it meant he missed her.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike stumbled out of the cave, his chest heaving. In the end, he’d asked to get the chip out, to be the sort of man that Buffy needed, so that he could keep his promises in the future. He hadn’t been certain that he’d ever be ready to go back to Sunnydale, but he wanted to get back to Buffy right then.

 

He was beat all to hell, and he’d need time to recover before he could head back, but at least his path was now clear.

 

Spike had to drag himself to shelter, and was grateful that he’d thought to look for another, nearby cave and stock a cooler full of blood. For the next few days, he slept and ate and slept again. He actually judged the timing fairly well, since he was recovered enough by the time he’d reached the end of his supplies to get to the Jeep he’d stolen.

 

He didn’t know if he would tell Buffy that he got the chip out. He knew he _should_ , but he thought he might be better served if he proved that he could control himself before he told her that the chip was gone.

 

The trip back to Sunnydale took far less time than getting to Africa had, as Spike was intent on _getting there_ , knowing that he’d been gone too long.

 

He hadn’t asked Buffy to wait; there was every possibility that she’d moved on, that his brief notes and borrowed words hadn’t been enough to keep her interest. Perhaps he would roll through town only to leave again, drifting in and out of her life until maybe, possibly, the timing for them would be right.

 

What Spike did know for certain was that he could face being in Sunnydale again, although whether that could be chalked up to getting the chip out, or the other half of the wish he’d made, he wasn’t sure.

 

Still, the trip across the ocean, and then across the US took longer than he’d have liked. He had to find a ship where it would be easy to hide, and where he could keep a stash of blood. He had to find a ship with the most direct route, so he wasn’t spending endless days at sea, moving from port to port, as he had when he’d first set out.

 

When he arrived in New York City, Spike considered calling Buffy, but he didn’t know what to say, and he thought it might be better to just show up.

 

 _Like a bad penny_ , he thought.

 

In New York, he had to find transportation, and there was still the matter of who and what to eat. Buffy wouldn’t approve of him being back on a human diet, and he was torn. On the one hand, what she didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt her.

 

On the other, he knew he couldn’t lie worth a damn, and if she asked, it might be better to be truthful.

 

 _Begin as you mean to go on_ , Spike figured. Besides, everybody was always going on about Angel’s soul, and how it made him so much better than other vampires.

 

What if Spike could show Buffy that he’d changed without a soul? What if, like those few weeks in Los Angeles, they could be together just as they were: the soulless, chipless vampire and the Slayer?

 

What if _now_ could be the right time and place for them?

 

Those were the questions that burned in Spike’s chest as he headed back to Sunnydale.

 

As he, possibly, headed home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poems in order of appearance:  
> ”Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal,” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson  
> ”Sonnet VI,” by Pablo Neruda  
> ”Parted Presence,” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti  
> ”Sonnet 98,” by William Shakespeare


	3. The Deepest Saddest Joys

Buffy had nearly forgotten about the box under her bed. She was scrounging for a pair of boots, ones she’d worn before and had broken in just right, but that had disappeared over the course of the summer.

 

She could have asked Dawn or Willow, to see if someone had taken them, or if maybe the ‘bot had worn them and left them somewhere, but—

 

She couldn’t. Buffy just couldn’t right now, and her lost boots seemed a bridge too far, and she was on the edge of tears when she spotted it.

 

The shoebox was dusty and a little battered, the writing on the side faded from years of storing a pair of heels she’d broken while patrolling one night. For a brief moment, she couldn’t remember what was in it, and she pulled it out with the tears still threatening, and then it hit her.

 

 _Spike_.

 

Buffy set the lid aside and picked up the first postcard in the pile; there were only about half a dozen of them, plus the book of Tennyson’s poems Spike had left for her, the page still dog-eared.

 

She couldn’t hold back the sobs then, as she remembered coming home to cuddle with her mom, while Joyce read Tennyson until Buffy had fallen asleep.

 

At the time, Buffy had believed that Spike leaving was the worst thing that could happen; she’d had no idea how much worse things could get.

 

And she now had her doubts that things would ever get better.

 

“Buffy!” Dawn called. “Are you home?”

 

Buffy swallowed her sobs and hastily dried her tears, not wanting Dawn to see her like this. She was broken, but her sister was happy to have her back. Buffy was trying not to begrudge her that.

 

“In my room!” she called, and quickly shoved the shoebox under the bed. She could look at it later, remind herself of how it had felt to be the strong one for a change.

 

Dawn burst through the door a few seconds later. “Janice invited me over for dinner. Can I go?”

 

Buffy hoped she hid the sigh of relief. If Dawn was eating at Janice’s, she wouldn’t have to figure out what to make for dinner out of the meager offerings in the pantry. “That’s fine. Be home by ten?”

 

Dawn let out a frustrated huff. “Come on, Buffy. It’s Friday night. I should be able to stay out later than that!”

 

Buffy bit back the response that sprang immediately to mind, that she was in charge, and Dawn would do as she was told. She was tired, certainly too tired and too _empty_ to fight with her sister right now. Especially considering that Buffy had forgotten that it was Friday, and would have given Dawn a later curfew if she’d remembered.

 

“Eleven then,” Buffy said, half-order and half-peace offering.

 

Dawn rolled her eyes. “Fine. Eleven.”

 

The flounce was expected, but Buffy couldn’t muster the energy to even be annoyed. She was having a hard time caring about much of anything these days, in between bouts of a weariness that weighed her down.

 

She heard the front door slam and knew Dawn was gone. Willow was probably studying, and Buffy—

 

Well, she should probably eat something and then patrol, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that either.

 

Buffy wandered out onto the back porch and sat on the steps, watching as the sun set, and the light faded. She wondered what might happen if she went out on patrol tonight and just—didn’t try. Would her friends bring her back a second time? Would she ever be allowed to rest?

 

“Wasn’t expecting to see that expression on your face again, Slayer.”

 

The voice, coming from a shadowy corner of her yard, startled her—and didn’t. She’d thought about Spike for the first time since her resurrection today, and here he was.

 

“What expression?”

 

“The fire’s gone out,” he replied, and swaggered into the light.

 

His swagger was back, Buffy realized. He didn’t hold himself so warily, and he didn’t look as tightly wound as when he’d left. He was wearing dark jeans, a dark blue shirt, and a leather jacket, his hair still bleached, but a little curly.

 

He looked good, and so alive and vibrant, and Buffy wondered if it were even possible for him to breathe some of that life into her.

 

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” Buffy said, rather than addressing his unspoken question.

 

“Had to see a demon about something,” Spike replied evasively. “Then had to get back here. The trip took a little longer than I expected.”

 

“Are you staying?” Buffy asked, and didn’t know what she wanted the answer to be.

 

Something in Spike’s face softened, and he stepped toward her, his body language changing, although Buffy wasn’t sure what it meant. “I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”

 

“It’s a free country,” Buffy replied, but she felt a little frisson of pleasure.

 

“Mind if I sit?”

 

“It’s a free country,” she repeated and felt a smile tilt her lips.

 

How long had it been since she smiled?

 

Spike sat next to her, then patted his pockets, coming up with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He shook one out and then lit it with practiced motions, taking a deep drag and blowing out the smoke away from her.

 

Buffy watched him and felt pleasure in that, too, remembering the girl she’d been what seemed like a hundred years ago, when Spike had sat in the window of her shitty apartment and breathed life back into her again.

 

When he offered her the cigarette, Buffy took it and puffed hesitantly, feeling the burn of smoke in her lungs.

 

At least she could feel that much.

 

“You want to tell me what’s been going on since I left?” Spike asked.

 

Buffy did and she didn’t. She wanted him to know, but she didn’t want to try to find the words either. “It’s a lot.”

 

“Figured that,” Spike agreed. “Who died?”

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“From the look on your face, someone did,” Spike replied. “It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

 

Buffy closed her eyes. “Mom. Mom died. And—and me.”

 

Spike didn’t say anything for the longest time, and then he draped an arm around Buffy’s shoulders and held her close, and Buffy let herself lean into his strength.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike’s first stop upon arriving in Sunnydale had been his old crypt, where he planned to set up residence again, at least for the time being. His second stop probably should have been the Watcher, given the little Buffy told him.

 

He hadn’t pushed for more information when she said that Joyce had died, and that she had, too. He’d seen how hard it was for her to say that much, and Spike had returned to make her life easier, not to reopen barely-healed wounds.

 

Spike still remembered how impossible it had been to speak about what he had suffered at the hands of the Initiative soldiers, how he hadn’t wanted Buffy to see his weakness, or to know about his nightmares.

 

He’d get the full story from someone else, some other time.

 

“Do you want to patrol?” Spike asked after he felt the silence had gone on long enough. “I could go with you.”

 

“I have to be back by eleven,” Buffy warned him. “Dawn should be home then, unless Janice asks her to spend the night.”

 

There was a moment when Spike had absolutely no idea what Buffy was talking about, and then he remembered the Slayer’s sister, not that he’d ever had much to do with her. His sympathy increased—Buffy would be looking after her sis on her own, then.

 

“We can do that,” he replied, holding out a hand to help her up. He was a little surprised when she took it, and her stomach growled loudly. “But maybe you should eat something first.”

 

“I don’t think there’s much in there,” she replied, sounding almost apologetic. “I just—haven’t felt like cooking lately.”

 

“Then we’ll go grab a bite somewhere else,” Spike offered. “My treat for standing you up for so long.”

 

Buffy gave him a long look. “Did it help?”

 

“You were right,” Spike admitted. “I needed to leave if I was going to get my head on straight.”

 

“That’s one thing that’s gone right, anyway,” Buffy muttered.

 

She was too thin, Spike thought. Like she hadn’t been eating well. And her eyes were those of the girl he’d known years ago, one that had been completely banished by the time she rescued him from the Initiative.

 

Or, not banished, but at least suppressed beneath the care of her friends and family. The last time he’d seen her so defeated had been after she’d sent Angel to hell and believed she’d been abandoned by her family.

 

He thought about what Joyce had said, about certainly hurting Buffy, and he knew she’d been all too right.

 

Spike wasn’t sure she’d accept, but he offered his arm anyway, and she tucked into his side like she’d never left.

 

“I got your postcards,” she said as they walked, heading for downtown and the nearest restaurants.

 

Spike hesitated, uncertain of how to reply. “Did you like them?” he finally asked.

 

“I did,” she admitted. “I—I took a poetry class last semester, before… Well, before I had to drop out, anyway.”

 

He thought this might be another one of those minefields. “Did you like the class?”

 

“I think I would have liked it more if I could have given it more attention.” She was quiet a moment, and the moonlight reflected off pale skin.

 

Spike didn’t think she’d been getting much sun, either, which was strange for her.

 

“Lot going on?” he finally ventured when she didn’t continue.

 

“You could say that.” Her tone was wry, and she didn’t offer any other information.

 

Spike decided to take a slightly different tack, beginning to tell her about the places he’d been, and the things he’d seen. Some of it he made up, because the hold of a cargo ship, or the interior of a cargo container, wasn’t all that interesting, but Buffy didn’t seem to notice or maybe she didn’t mind.

 

His stories carried them through dinner, at least, and then there was patrol, and they found a few vampires.

 

Spike was relieved to see a little of the old fire as she fought, and it was a real pleasure to be back-to-back again, to fight at her side. Their old dance might have been put on hold, but they picked up the threads without missing a beat.

 

When all the vampires were dust, Buffy turned to him with need in her eyes, and Spike pulled her close, her mouth on his just as hungry, just as demanding. Buffy shoved him up against the wall of a nearby mausoleum, and Spike grabbed her ass, feeling strong legs curve around his waist.

 

He turned them so that it was her back against the wall, put a hand behind her shoulders so she wouldn’t be hurt, and she gasped out, “No, Spike, I need to feel it.”

 

“I can do rough,” he growled, overcome in the moment with wanting her, and he shoved her up against the mausoleum harder, bit her neck with human teeth, shoved aside her jeans and underwear to thrust his fingers inside her wet heat with little finesse.

 

Buffy didn’t seem to care, gasping, her mouth opening in pleasure when he found her clit with his thumb, coming around his fingers before he’d even had a chance to unzip his own pants.

 

He rode out her orgasm with gentling hands, and then unzipped his jeans and pushed inside her with one hard thrust.

 

She clutched his shoulders as he moved inside her, and he knew that had she been anybody other than the Slayer, their coupling would have been termed brutal.

 

Buffy urged him to go faster, though, harder, and when Spike came, he thought it was about the best sex he’d ever had.

 

He pulled back just far enough to set them to rights, although he knew Buffy probably wanted a shower after that, and searched her face for any sign of discomfort.

 

Buffy rested her head on his shoulder, hiding her expression but moving closer, so Spike didn’t mind all that much. “Just like old times, huh?”

 

“Just like,” he replied, although he thought this had been a good deal rougher than most of their couplings in the past. He remembered the gentle lovemaking they’d indulged in before he left Sunnydale, and thought he wouldn’t mind a few more nights of tenderness.

 

But if rough and ready was what Buffy needed now, Spike would be that for her.

 

~~~~~

 

“You’re humming.”

 

The tone was accusatory coming from Willow, and maybe that made sense. Buffy hadn’t been happy lately; she wasn’t sure she could remember humming while washing the dishes in—a long time. She’d leave it at that.

 

“I slept through the night last night,” she admitted, and that was all she was prepared to admit to this time. She didn’t intend to hide the fact that Spike was back in town, or that they were sleeping together again. Or was it still?

 

Willow frowned. “You hadn’t been sleeping?”

 

“Nightmares,” Buffy replied shortly, her good mood vanishing like the soap bubbles in the sink. She dreamed of waking up in a coffin most nights. And those weren’t even the worst of her dreams, although they were the most vivid.

 

She hadn’t dreamed last night, for which she was grateful. Turnabout might be fair play, but she didn’t want to explain her nightmares to Spike.

 

Buffy had a lot more sympathy for him now than she had before she’d died. She could understand needing to leave Sunnydale to get a bit of distance.

 

“You could have told me,” Willow said reproachfully. “I could have done a spell—”

 

“No,” Buffy said, more sharply than she intended. Softening her tone, she repeated, “No, Willow. I don’t need to be fixed. I just need some time.”

 

Guilt and grief and stubbornness crossed Willow’s expression in quick succession. “Buffy—”

 

“No,” Buffy insisted.

 

She knew her friends were worried about her, that they wanted her to be better, but it wasn’t that simple.

 

“If you change your mind…” Willow trailed off.

 

 _I won’t_ , Buffy thought, but she smiled. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if I do.”

 

She could have said something else, of course. She could have told Willow she’d done enough already by dragging her out of heaven, and nearly getting Dawn killed. She could have pointed out that Willow’s use of magic was dangerous and irresponsible.

 

Saying any of those things would lead to a fight, however, and Buffy barely had the energy to get through her day. She didn’t want to stage an intervention for her best friend, too.

 

“Hey, Buffy!” Dawn called. “I’m back.”

 

Her sister sounded cheerful, maybe because she’d gotten to spend the night at Janice’s, doing normal teen things. Buffy should probably encourage Dawn to do more of that, if only so she didn’t have to cook.

 

“Did you have a good time?” she managed to ask.

 

Her respite with Spike the previous night had given her back a little bit of balance, enough to show some concern with her sister, and to shut down Willow’s offers of help.

 

Dawn grinned and showed off turquoise nail polish. “Janice did my nails, and I did hers, and we ate cookie dough and watched movies.”

 

“Sounds like fun,” Buffy replied, and she thought she might have even managed to sound cheerful.

 

Maybe it worked too well, because Dawn gave her a strange look. “You look different today.”

 

“Different how?” Buffy asked, grateful that her shirt collar hid the hickey Spike had given her and that it was fading fairly quickly.

 

She was resolutely not thinking about the fact that Spike had bitten her because she would have to ask him about the chip, and right now she’d like to live in the land of denial, at least for a few more hours.

 

Dawn shook her head. “I don’t know. Just different. Are you okay?”

 

“I slept last night,” Buffy said.

 

Dawn seemed to accept that explanation, although Willow was still giving her an odd look. “Okay.”

 

“I should probably run some errands,” Buffy announced. “Does anybody need anything?”

 

Both Dawn and Willow said no, so Buffy grabbed the car keys and left, figuring that she could at least get some groceries with her dwindling funds.

 

That was something productive, anyway.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike needed answers, and Buffy wasn’t going to provide them, so he’d need to find another source. His first thought was the Watcher, but when he stopped by the Magic Box, he found Anya behind the counter and no Giles in sight.

 

He knew Anya only slightly. He had mostly avoided Buffy’s friends after he was out of the Initiative, and before he left Sunnydale. And, while Anya would probably know what had happened, she was sure to report both his presence and his questions back to Harris, and Spike wanted to avoid the boy for the time being.

 

Willow would have been an obvious second choice, but he was none too sure of his welcome with her. Joyce, of course, was gone, which was a real shame. Spike had liked her, had liked her balls and her willingness to be honest.

 

He could ask Dawn, he supposed, but he knew Buffy’s tendency to protect her sister, and he hadn’t spent much time with Dawn either.

 

Spike was still contemplating his options that night when he stopped in at the grocery store for Wheetabix and cigarettes, and ran into Willow’s girl.

 

He spotted her first and was debating whether to duck out of sight or greet her when she saw him, her eyes widening.

 

There was a moment as they stared at each other where Spike was none too sure she’d say anything at all but would choose to ignore his presence.

 

And then, she straightened her shoulders and walked up to him. “Hi, Spike.”

 

They’d spent no more than a handful of hours together, but he nodded. “Tara.”

 

She smiled. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember my name.”

 

Spike shrugged, unable to admit that he remembered everything having to do with Buffy.

 

“Does Buffy know you’re back in town?” Tara asked.

 

“Saw her last night,” Spike admitted. “I was hoping to see her again tonight, but—I went by the Magic Box to have a word with her Watcher and didn’t see him.”

 

Tara’s expression became a little stiffer. “He went back to England a month or so ago.”

 

Spike sighed. “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to get my information elsewhere.”

 

“What sort of information?” she asked warily.

 

“Buffy told me a little bit of what went on, but not much,” Spike admitted. “I didn’t want to push, since she seemed—” He paused. “It didn’t seem like the right thing to do.”

 

Tara looked at him, her gaze measuring, and then she nodded, almost to herself. “All right. Do you like tea?”

 

And that was how he found himself in Tara’s tiny basement flat, sipping from a mug of tea and completely surprised that she was willing to serve as his source of info.

 

“Are you here to stay?” Tara asked before he could press her with questions. “Because if you’re only going to leave again, better to do it now.”

 

Spike was a little surprised at the blunt question, but he replied, “I can stay this time. I wouldn’t have left before, but I needed it.”

 

Tara sighed. “Well, I’d probably better start at the beginning.”

 

She kept the details sparse, but she explained how they had found out Dawn was actually a mystical key, about the Hellgod, and Buffy’s mom being sick, and then getting better, and then dying. Tara told him that Glory had discovered Dawn’s identity, kidnapped her, and opened a portal, and that Buffy had sacrificed herself to save everyone.

 

And then, her friends had resurrected her.

 

“Willow was so sure she was in a hell dimension,” Tara said, emotion choking her voice. “If we’d known…”

 

Spike was beginning to get the full picture. “She was a hero, and she died to save the world, and you lot thought she was in a hell dimension. Was there a body to bury?”

 

Tara grimaced. “Yes, and I know what you’re going to say, Spike, but Willow—I should have known better, though.”

 

He bit his tongue. He needed to know the rest of it. “What else?”

 

“She woke up in her coffin and dug herself out,” Tara said, and Spike could hear the real distress in her voice. “And she hasn’t really been the same. We weren’t sure why at first, but then Xander did a spell, and—suffice it to say, she admitted that she’d been in heaven. Willow and I broke up after that because she altered my memories to make me forget our fight, and I moved out.”

 

“And Red?” Spike asked.

 

Tara shook her head. “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken in a couple of weeks.”

 

Spike thought of the picture that had greeted him when he’d seen her on her back steps last night, and the desolation in her eyes. At least now he knew the cause, and he suspected he understood why she’d wanted it rough last night.

 

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to give her what she needed, but he knew he had to try. Buffy had done no less for him.

 

“Ta,” Spike said. “You’ve been a help.”

 

Tara stood with him and put a hand on his arm. “Spike—I owe Buffy a debt. If there’s anything I can do for her or Dawn, please let me know.”

 

Spike nodded. “I will.”

 

~~~~~

 

Buffy had expected to see Spike as soon as the sun went down and was a little surprised when he didn’t show. For a moment, the fear that he’d left again gripped her, and then she shook it off.

 

She’d done without him before, and she could get by without him again. Spike had made her feel last night, and she’d slept without nightmares for the first time in weeks.

 

That was something to be grateful for anyway.

 

Still, she couldn’t help but go to his old crypt, where he’d set up shop last summer. There were no signs of life in the main area, but she dropped down to the lower level and pulled out her cell phone.

 

The screen glowed faintly, giving her just enough light to see an old duffel bag with clothes spilling out of it, and a blanket thrown over a bare mattress. It smelled a little musty down here, but mostly of damp earth and stone, and when she shivered, she sat down and drew the blanket around her shoulders.

 

From the blanket, she caught a hint of cigarette smoke and leather, and Buffy breathed in deeply. She wished she could curl up here, pull the blanket over her head, and just never come out. She didn’t think that Dawn or her friends fully realized what a chore it was just getting out of bed most mornings.

 

Buffy put one foot in front of the other, and she went through the motions, but she wasn’t sure that was really living.

 

“I was hoping to get it fixed up a little nicer before you came over,” Spike said, dropping down through the trapdoor.

 

She shrugged. “When you didn’t show up tonight, I thought—”

 

Buffy stopped. She didn’t want to sound needy, to chase him off because she was the stereotypical clingy girlfriend who got upset when he wasn’t where she expected him to be, even though they’d made no solid plans.

 

“Had to pick up a couple of things,” Spike replied. “I ran into Tara at the store, and she filled me in on the details. Went by your house, and you weren’t there so I thought I’d try here next.”

 

Buffy breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to find the right words to explain what had happened. “Tara told you everything?”

 

“Broad strokes,” Spike admitted. “Probably still a little fuzzy on some of the details, but I got enough.” He sat down next to her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

 

“I hated you a little bit for that,” Buffy admitted softly. “After mom died, and I was just trying to keep everything together, and keep Social Services from taking Dawn, I hated you.”

 

Spike didn’t say anything in his own defense, nor did he try to minimize her feelings or argue that she shouldn’t have felt that way.

 

“And then I’d get one of your postcards, and I’d think it was better than I ever got from any other guy that I dated, and maybe it would have been harder if you had stayed, and you weren’t getting better,” Buffy continued in a rush. “And I thought it was easier if you weren’t here, because I didn’t think I’d be able to take care of you, too, on top of everything else. And then I’d wish I had you back, but the version of you who was in Los Angeles.”

 

The silence that hung between them was heavy and pregnant with possibilities.

 

“I wished I could have been that person for you again,” Spike said quietly. “I’d like to stay and show you that I can.”

 

Buffy turned to look at him, and she could only just make out his pale hair and skin; everything else was shrouded in darkness. “What if you can’t?”

 

“Then maybe I can be the person you need right now,” Spike offered.

 

Buffy shook her head. “I can’t—”

 

“Let me,” Spike said insistently and kissed her, gently this time, without yesterday’s desperation.

 

He kissed her sweetly and undressed her slowly, and then he used his mouth on her until she was writhing, unable to do anything but feel.

 

There was only now, and the darkness, and Spike’s lips and tongue and hands, spreading her thighs, lapping at her clit, and she cried out as she came.

 

And then he began again, until her world was nothing but sensation, and every nerve ending felt as though it was on fire, and she cried out his name over and over.

 

When she slept, she dreamed of him. That was the gift he’d given her.

 

~~~~~

 

Spike was afraid to sleep with Buffy next to him. He still had the occasional nightmare, and he didn’t want to risk waking her. And if _she_ had a nightmare, he didn’t want to risk not being awake so that he could potentially interrupt it.

 

He had no idea how to help her really, or what he could offer. The bits of William left in him could remember Sunday morning sermons on heaven and the hope of an afterlife, but it was something Spike had given up on when the demon took over.

 

Still, he could imagine what it might be like to go from where he was now back to the Initiative labs, with no hope of reversing that turn of events.

 

He could distract her, provide her moments of pleasure where she forgot everything but his name and yes and please and more. He could watch her back on patrol and perhaps stymie the death wish he’d seen in every Slayer’s eyes he’d met so far.

 

Maybe he’d keep to the shadows of her life, but that might be enough for the both of them. He wasn’t sure he dared ask for more, not when he’d left her to face all of that alone, not when he hadn’t been here to keep his promise.

 

She stirred, and he knew it was still before dawn when she said, “Spike? The chip is gone, isn’t it?”

 

He hadn’t told her yet, and he was hoping it would wait a little longer. “Yeah, it’s gone. Haven’t fed on a human in months, though, and the only one was a junkie attacking an old man. Spat the blood right out again, it tasted so bad.”

 

That was nothing but the truth, although Spike wasn’t sure she’d believe him.

 

“Why?” Buffy asked, her voice a little shaky.

 

“Because a bunch of humans beat me so badly I didn’t think I’d make it to shelter,” Spike admitted. “And because I couldn’t stand the thought of the Initiative still being in my head.”

 

Buffy let out a breath, and then she said, “Promise me you won’t do anything that would make me stake you. _Please_ , Spike.”

 

“I promise that I will not feed on an innocent,” Spike said. “But I can’t promise not to do everything in my power to protect you.” He paused. “And your sister. I owe that to your mum.”

 

Buffy curled in closer to him, and Spike allowed himself to hope that maybe this time, it would work out. “I sleep better with you here.”

 

“I should bloody well hope so, Summers,” Spike replied quietly. “Big bad, here.”

 

When she chuckled, he felt as though he’d done something right. “The big bad who sends me postcards with poetry on them.”

 

“You said you liked the poetry,” he accused.

 

“I did,” she replied lightly. “But between Tennyson, Neruda, and Shakespeare, I’m not sure your big bad status is intact.”

 

Spike smiled, relieved her hear her banter. “Well, maybe if I’d quoted Elizabeth Barrett Browning…”

 

He could almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Whatever. Quote me some poetry, Spike. It will help me sleep.”

 

“As you wish,” Spike murmured. It wasn’t too much to ask really, and he recited the first one that came to mind. “Light, so low upon the earth, you sent a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love, all my wooing is done.”

 

He thought she’d gone to sleep, but at the close of the poem, she murmured, “The day you left, after I found the book, I went home. Mom was there, and she was the one who realized you’d left a message for me. She read Tennyson until I went to sleep that night. That’s what I was thinking about when you showed up last night.”

 

Spike was undone. He thought of a thousand extravagant promises and could offer none. He had only just returned; they had spent more time apart than together. Their relationship could easily flame and burn out.

 

He wasn’t even able to offer her his own words, so he quoted the poem he left for her, speaking softly until she had fallen asleep, lying awake and wondering if this time it might be different.

 

 

_Afraid to love and afraid to give_

_Just because of what it might cost us_

_But love can never, never live_

_Without the pain, the pain of loss_

_Life's never fair and it can be rough_

_And it can turn and play cruel tricks on us_

_And just when we think we've had enough_

_There's always one more river to cross_

_The temporary nature of any precious thing_

_That just makes it, just makes it more precious_

_But not easier, not easier to lose_

_To lose somebody as precious as you_

_We don't have an answer. God only knows_

_Why we are made to weather these storms_

_But God knows I love you and you're always been precious_

_Since the day, the day you were born_

_And it's always the sweetest reddest roses_

_That kiss the sharpest thorns_

_And it's always the deepest saddest joys_

_That prove to be the richest ones_

_The temporary nature of any precious thing_

_That just makes it, just makes it more precious_

_But not easier, not easier to lose_

_To lose somebody, somebody like you_

_To lose somebody as precious as you_

_To lose somebody as precious as you_

 

~Lucinda Williams, “Temporary Nature (of Any Precious Thing)”


End file.
